Eavesdrop
by Love Like Homicide
Summary: Pete hears his name and decides to listen in. Pete/Mike


South Park high's misery trio, decked out in torn band t-shirts and mutilated fishnets, sat together under Henrietta's Victorian-style purple parasol. In celebration of South Park's one week of Summer, their school had organised a picnic over the break. Under normal circumstances they wouldn't have been caught dead at a school function, especially not one held over the holidays, but they didn't have much of a choice this time – or at least, Henrietta didn't, so it's a good thing she had such great friends. Even Firkle had volunteered to come and keep her company, but, being a middle schooler, he wasn't allowed to. The grass was still damp from the melted snow, but there was no moisture in the air. They sat together on a red chequered blanket, Pete and Michael looking more punk than Goth, reading Arthur Conan Doyle and writing poetry about the cruel, blistering heat.

Pete adjusted the fishnets around his arms, his fingers poking through holes where toes normally went, and stood up. 'Getting iced coffee. You guys want anything?'

Michael shrugged. 'Water, I guess. God, I'm dizzy!' Pete assumed it was because he insisted on wearing his black slacks and dress shoes, even on the hottest day of the year, but didn't comment.

Henrietta shook her head and pulled a coffin-shaped compact mirror out of her bag. 'Better not, it already looks like my face is melting off. The _one_ good thing about this stupid, inbred mountain town was that I didn't need to fork out for waterproof makeup, now I don't even have that. Bury me, Pete. Just dig a hole and bury me.'

He rolled his eyes. 'But then_ I'd_ be sweaty.'

He walked down the hill they were situated on and towards the small, park-side cafe. He manoeuvred around the clusters of students, all also either sitting on blankets or crouched in the dirt, but paused when he heard his name. There were other 'Pete's at the school, sure, but whoever said it followed a few words later with 'Goth'. Interest piqued, he followed the chatter. Unsurprisingly, it led to another group of black-clad teenagers, facing away from him, and at the centre of the conversation was a head of black and green hair. He leaned against a nearby tree to listen in.

'You cannot be serious!' a blond girl, the one who called herself Bloodrayne, squealed. 'It's forbidden love, like Romeo and Juliet, or if Edward and Jacob got together!'

Mike laughed quietly. 'Yeah, I guess. But it's not forbidden, per se. He just hates me.'

Pete hoped they weren't talking about him, but he had a sinking feeling they were. He considered abandoning this whim and pretending he hadn't heard anything; he could still do that. But he didn't. He hadn't heard anything incriminating yet, but he needed to. For whatever reason, he needed to know what Mike thought of him.

'So, what exactly do you like about him?' Annie Barlett asked, a giggle in her voice.

'Yeah, Vampir. What's so great about an enemy who never has a single nice thing to say about any of us?' Larry sounded considerably less supportive.

After a beat of silence, Mike spoke up again with a note of irritation in his voice. 'He doesn't have to like me, I respect his honesty, per se. I'm able to notice his qualities, even if he doesn't show them to me specifically. He's really mature, and he's an amazing artist, and his hair looks really soft.'

Pete's stomach felt tight and fuzzy. Is this what people meant when they referred to nervous butterflies? It reminded him more of radio static. A warm static, like white noise playing in his bedroom while he's wrapped in a soft doona and dozing off to sleep.

'How do you know he's a good artist?' Annie asked. 'He's not in our art class.'

'Well…' Mike sounded abashed. 'He came to English class a couple of weeks ago and left his notebook behind. I sort of… went through it. I know I shouldn't have, but I'd seen him sketching during class and I wanted to see what he drew. It was beautiful.'

Pete's face heated up and he knew it wasn't because of the weather. He remembered that class - he'd only shown up to get Henrietta's homework because she was sick, and he drew that picture to cheer her up. It was a picture of Henrietta surrounded by candles, with a crow on her arm. He nearly had a stroke when he realised he'd left it behind, but when he went back his notebook was still on his desk, exactly where he'd left it, or so he thought. Sneaky conformist. Still, hearing someone other than his friends compliment his art made him happy, and he wanted to thank him. He couldn't, though, because then he would have to admit to eavesdropping.

He walked away from his tree and the unsuspecting vamp-kids, the gears turning in his head, and continued his trek to the cafe. He bought his coffee and Michael's water, then returned to his friends.

'Took you long enough,' Henrietta said, not looking up from her book.

'Yeah. Line,' he muttered as he flopped down beside Michael, his head to the blanket and the cool drink clasped between both hands. His friend gave him a perplexed look but didn't comment.

He stayed reclined like that for a few minutes, until he had an idea. He pulled his sketchbook out of his black backpack and opened to a blank page, then began sketching aimlessly, waiting for the various incoherent ideas to give way to an image. Flowers and teeth and torn clothes and long hair filled the page. It wasn't a portrait, but a storm. He circled the elements he liked and coloured over patches until he found a colour-scheme that worked. It was only 11:30, he had four hours to get this right.

His friends watched him work but didn't ask to look, figuring he would show them when it was done like he always did. Lunchtime rolled around and he was just about finished, which was good, because he'd just spotted Mike walking to the cafe with Larry.

'Getting lunch,' he said as he stood up, sketchbook under his arm. 'You want anything?'

Michael shrugged and Henrietta pointed to her half-empty container of chips. She must have bought them while he was distracted.

''Kay then.'

In the cafe, which was crowded with students pushed up close together chatting loudly and sharing food, he saw Mike in line. He was talking to Larry about something and occasionally pointing to the display case full of cake. He made a mental note to find out what sort of cake Mike liked, then wondered why on earth he would want to do something like that. That was a question for later. Right now, he was on a mission. He grabbed Mike by the arm and dragged him off to the corner. Larry yelled and took a step to follow them, but Mike shook his head and told him to order a slice of raspberry cheesecake for him.

Well, that answered that.

He looked down at Pete but didn't meet his eyes, his cheeks were tinted pink, and his hands clasped together in front of him from poorly hidden nerves. 'To what do I owe the pleasure, per se?'

Pete rolled his eyes. 'Here.' He carefully tore out the page and handed it to Mike.

Mike stared down at the drawing of him, blood on his face and a dying rose in his hands, and he gasped. The longer he stared, the wider his eyes got and the redder his face, and eventually he stammered out, 'wh-why?'

Pete shrugged. His reaction made him uncomfortable. After all, it was only a drawing, and this one wasn't even as good as the one he gave Henrietta. He'd drawn her dozens of times, knew the best poses for her body type and the curves of her soft face from every angle, so he could make her portraits as flattering as possible. The picture he did of Mike, while not terrible, was still not his best work. The proportions were all wrong. So were the eyes, which he could have sworn were blue but were actually a dull, mossy green. Mike's eyes match the tips of his hair, and he hadn't realised.

Still, Mike didn't seem to notice any of the imperfections. 'Thank you!'

Pete tried to step past him and flee back to the safety of his friends, where he could wallow in overblown shame, but he didn't get a chance. Mike grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into a one-armed hug. His breath caught in his throat. Mike's body was warm, he could feel his breath brush the back of his neck, and his hair smelt like peppermint, sunscreen and sweat. Mike pulled away and the warmth left behind made the taller boy feel very real. Pete wanted to do more, to touch him again, but instead he just nodded dumbly and ran straight for the door.

As he was climbing into Henrietta's mother's car at the end of the day, Pete spotted Mike with his step-dad. Their eyes met and the Vampire grinned.


End file.
